Newspaper Page Text
Page 4 — Wednesday, December 27 2023, The True Citizen
OPINIONS
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
The Pledge Of Allegiance
1 pledge, allegiance, to the flag
of the United States of America
and to the Republic for which
*it stands, one Nation under
God, indivisible, with liberty and
justice for all.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
LOOKING BACK
{this week in Burke County history}
20 YEARS AGO-DEC. 31,2003
Burke County Board of Elections member Joel Cren
shaw died in a collision with a large farm tractor on Old
Waynesboro Road. The father of three was an employee
of Augusta Newsprint and had been a member of the
board since 1998.
Burke County had collected over $6.8 million in rev
enue from the Special Purpose Local Option Sales Tax
(SPLOST) in the first three years the tax was in effect.
The top story in the county in 2003 was the rebound
of agriculture after five years of losses due to severe
droughts.
Burke County Bears junior linebacker Marcus Wash
ington was selected by The Augusta Chronicle for their
All Area Second Team. He was the only local player
selected.
50 YEARS AGO-JAN. 2,1974
Fundraising efforts for the new Burke County Library
topped $20,000 in donations. A $1,500 gift from the
Waynesboro Exchange Club pushed the fund over that
mark.
A Christmas Day break in a waste pond Dam at the
J.M. Huber Corp. in Wrens turned the waters of briar
Creek white with kaolin. A spokesman for the company
said that, “even though the stream looks bad, there would
be no toxic effects from the spill and the stream should
clear up in a few days.”
70 YEARS AGO-DEC. 31,1953
Advertisers included Barefield’s Store and Ginnery,
Waynesboro Auto and Hardware Supply, Allen-Wynne
Pharmacy, Blount Fish Co., Anthony Wayne Hotel, Jar
vis Drug Co, Walker-Brooks 5&10c Store and Ward’s
Garage.
C.P Daniel’s Sons announced it was moving to a
new location on Shadrack street across from Economos
Laundry.
“The Bandwagon” starring Fred Astaire and Cyd Cha-
risse was playing at the Waynesboro Drive-In Theatre.
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Don Lively
THE WEEK OF
( Reprinted)
I'm a fellow who loves to be
on the road.
Traveling is my favorite of
all pastimes.
I also raised my children to
be independent and, sometimes
to my regret, they actually took
me at my word and through
the years scattered to the four
winds.
So how does that all relate to
this week's screed?
Well, I'll tell you.
In my lifetime I have awoken
on Christmas morning in six
different states.
Now, if you're a career mili
tary person, somebody spend
ing Christmases in six states
sounds like a piker, but for
many folks, the Holidays spent
anywhere except "home" is
unheard of. I know plenty of
people who have spent every
Christmas of their lives in the
same place.
The point of all this is, it
gives me a perspective of com
parison.
America, with oceans on
three sides and mountains,
plains, deserts, rain forests,
valleys and vast waterways
scattered from border to border,
is blessedly located on a planet
where many other countries
are not much more than vast
wastelands.
It's not an accident.
God ordained America's
greatness before He created
the universe.
Because I've gotten to see
every state and have traveled
extensively all across "the
fruited plain", I will never lay
down and watch her become
just another third world country
without a fight, and I suspect
most of you feel the same way.
Once again, I've digressed.
Christmas week.
My first twenty some odd
Christmases were spent right
here in this neck of the woods.
The familiar smells of cedar and
Mama's cooking still lingered
in the days after Christmas and
the memories of those times are
forever burnished into my heart.
Christmas week in the Blessed
South, for a young farmboy,
was a magical, relaxing time
away from school and from
chores. A time to visit cousins
and compare Christmas gifts.
Perhaps to wander the woods
Ronda Rich
A new year has arrived and
a half-ragged one lies behind,
reduced now to memories.
It seemed, at times, I couldn’t
enjoy the wonderful things
popping around because of
such bone-deep sorrow brought
on by the home-going of loved
ones.
It was death that had brought
Sue Holliman and I together,
bonding us into a steadfast
friendship for the last 30 years.
Sue’s son, Jay, was one of my
best friends in college. He
was remarkably quick-witted
and laughed about everything.
Even the “F” he got in English
for the review of a book he
never read.
“It’s all very simple to hx.
Next time, I’ll just read the
book,” he laughed heartily.
The last time I saw Jay, he
was standing in front of the
guesthouse he rented behind
an Atlanta mansion, grinning
widely, waving good-bye. It
really was good-bye. A blood
clot broke loose and carried
him away.
Sue and I clung to each other
after that, sharing happiness
and sorrows. It was one of the
most wonderful friendships of
my life. It was around 8:30 on
a Friday night. Tink heard my
cellphone ringing and looked to
see Sue’s name. He grabbed it
and brought it to me.
“Baby, it’s Sue Holliman.”
My eyes widened in alarm.
“Something’s wrong,” I said.
At hrst, all I heard was the
sobbing on the other end of
the line. Then, after several
seconds, I heard, through the
tears, “Ronda, it’s Lucy.”
Sue’s daughter. “No, no,
no,” I said. “No. Please, don’t
tell me.”
Sue had died, unexpectedly,
in the night. “Would you speak
at the funeral?”
It was in a tiny country
church but her casket was
carried majestically in a horse-
drawn carriage to the church
and then to the cemetery.
It’s not often that strangers,
brought together by death,
could share another tragedy.
It’s the kind of story that, if
you wrote and turned it into
with that new J.C. Higgins 22
rihe that I found under the tree,
in search of squirrels or rabbits.
Other years I sat under a pine
with my brand new guitar trying
my best to play House Of The
Rising Sun, and failing, but en
joying the sounds just the same.
A week after I graduated
from college I headed Out West
where I would spend the next
thirty years. Christmases in
Colorado, more often than not,
were "white" with newly fallen
snow adding to the already fes
tive feeling. Many times in the
days immediately following
Christmas we would take our
children sledding in the foot
hills of the Rockies and then
warm up with hot chocolate
and cookies right out of the
oven while new snow fell on
the already frozen landscape.
If that ain't Christmas, grits ain't
groceries.
During those same years
we would occasionally spend
Christmas in Texas where my
wife's family lived. Did you
know that folks in Texas deco
rate their Christmas trees with
chili peppers and spurs? Yep.
The wind almost always blows
across the Texas plains and
Christmastime is no excep
tion. The chill would go right
FACING THE NEW YEAR
a book editor or a television
executive, they would hing it
back at you, saying, “No one
will ever believe that.”
Yet, it happened.
As a young sports writer, I
met a race car driver from Mil
waukee named Alan Kulwicki.
He was running a series that ran
in the Midwest. For the next
four years, we dated off and on.
More off than on. We were such
different people. He was seri
ous , intellectual, and never saw
humor in anything. He decided
to sell all he had in Milwaukee
and move to Charlotte — to
run in NASCAR’s top series.
I, by that time, was working
full-time in the sport.
One night in Michigan, Alan
was really down because he
had blown his best engine in
practice. Over dinner, I listened
to his woes then said, “Alan,
why don’t you go back to
Milwaukee? You were making
good money there.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I will
not give up.”
There were a couple of years
that were incredibly hard. But,
he persevered and in his hfth
season, won the prestigious
championship. In New York,
through you but during walks
around the neighborhood af
ter the gifts were opened and
brunch was eaten, you'd hear
George Strait or Jerry Jeff
Walker Christmas songs com
ing from the houses.
After my kids scattered I
spent one Christmas in Califor
nia where my Marine son and
his wife and newborn boy were
living. Having a Christmas
meal on the Santa Monica pier
jutting out into the Pacihc made
for an unforgettable Christ
mas week. It's not unusual to
see palm trees decorated with
lights and garland, or to catch
a glimpse of a surfer out on the
waves dressed as Santa Claus.
Another Christmas was spent
in the Show Me State of Mis
souri. It was a delightful time
with just a smidgen of snow
on the ground, cold temps and
lots of hugs from two of my hve
grands. Another highlight of
that Christmas was standing at
the very spot where Lewis and
Clark began their exploration of
the mostly unknown territories
that would become America.
I pondered on the
Christmas that those g ^ ^
men spent in an un- |_|\/ELY
charted wilderness.
Recent Christ- ®
in December, he accepted the
big trophy, grinning ear to ear
with pure joy.
Four months later, on April
1, 1993, the private plane that
Alan was traveling in, crashed
going into Bristol, Tennessee.
It was a horrific crash that no
one survived.
On board, also, was Mark
Brooks, Sue’s first cousin’s
son. We had in common, two
great tragedies. The last time
I talked to Sue was on April
1, the 30th anniversary of the
plane crash.
I called her and she said,
“I’m glad you called. I’ve been
thinking of you all day.”
Sue’s passing came too close
on the heels of losing my pre
cious Anne Hodnett. A few
months after Sue’s death, my
new book was released, sky
rocketing to bestseller status.
It was the hrst book release
I’d ever had when Sue was not
one of the hrst in line.
Join me in believing that
better days are ahead in 2024.
Ronda Rich is the best-sell
ing author of St. Simons Island:
A Stella Bankwell Mystery.
Sign up for her free newsletter
at www.rondarich.com.